


The Devil's In Your Corner

by thepetulantpen



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A little angst, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Some comfort, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: “Where’d you learn that?”Matt falters, promptly forgetting all of his predetermined excuses, and settles on, “My dad was a boxer.”He’s pretty sure they’re going to go back to ignoring each other and not asking questions, when Bucky speaks up, “Will you show me?”Matt and Bucky meet at Fogwell's. It all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Matt Murdock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	The Devil's In Your Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, generic devil-pun title is generic. My draft document for this is tilted “oh my god, they were gym buddies”.

There’s a new guy at Fogwell’s.

A fellow night owl, with the connections necessary to not only convince the owner to let him in after-hours, but let him share the space with Matt. He’s taken to showing up irregularly throughout the week, a consequence of either a hectic schedule or an ill-fated attempt to avoid Matt. Neither of their routines are consistent enough to predict, meaning that when they coincide, Matt and the new guy are stuck together, like it or not.

Well- he says _new guy_ as if he doesn’t know who he is, as if he hadn’t recognized the voice of Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, from the news or realized that the metallic creaking and electronic buzz came from a highly advanced metal arm. 

Given that he introduced himself as “James”, Matt assumes he’s trying to keep his identity on the down-low, if not willing to lie outright. It’s none of his business, anyway. He’s here to do his own thing; though it figures that Bucky would be equally inclined to work out after hours, when nobody else is around. Matt is just glad that Bucky only shows up once or twice a week, presumably busy with... Avengers stuff? He’s not sure- and he’s definitely not going to ask.

The first few times they run into each other are distinctly awkward, clumsy attempts to keep their distance. A month in, Matt learns to filter out the sounds of Bucky’s heartbeat and punching bag, and Bucky stops tensing at the sight of him. 

As it turns out, he’s putting a little _too_ much effort into ignoring Bucky.

One night, one of his worse nights, he unloads everything he has into the bag, not caring that there’s another person in the room until Bucky’s heart-rate picks up in surprise. It’s too late to slow down- he’d give away that he noticed Bucky looking- so he finishes his set and gets water, pretending he hasn’t heard Bucky stop entirely to stare at him. 

“Where’d you learn _that_?”

Matt falters, promptly forgetting all of his predetermined excuses, and settles on, “My dad was a boxer.”

Bucky goes quiet, either in disbelief or exasperation at Matt managing not to answer the question. His expression is difficult to discern; easier to tell from tone, but Bucky isn’t exactly the talkative type. 

He’s pretty sure they’re going to go back to ignoring each other and not asking questions, when Bucky speaks up, “Will you show me?”

That throws him through a loop- what could he possibly teach a _super soldier_? If it’s some sort of cover, it’s an exceptionally odd way to go about it- playing the part of a novice by asking a blind stranger for boxing advice.

Of course, the reason is inconsequential. It’s not as if he can say _no_.

“Uh- yeah.” And some people claim he’s charming. _Get it together, Murdock_. “I’ll show you.”

He walks Bucky through as best he can- which is to say, with difficulty. He’s never been much of a teacher and it’s hard to tell how helpful a demonstration is. If he were in Bucky’s shoes, he’d be able to sense the movement and copy it, but he doesn’t know what Bucky _sees_ or how complicated it is, visually. 

Bucky isn’t giving him many clues, watching silently with his arms crossed. He acknowledges Matt’s tips, when he’s directly addressed, but only with a barely audible hum. Once he’s done, there’s an extended moment of silence- in which Matt stands awkwardly next to the bag, anger drained and replaced with confusion- before Bucky shifts, stepping over to an adjacent bag and giving the move a try. 

Matt tunes in, trying to stitch together a mental image of the precise movement. He rarely bothers with precision; in a fight, he only has to know where a fist is going, the technique either unimportant or assumed A unique mix of air motion and the subtle sounds of fabric and muscle fill in the gaps, like paper mâché draped over a frame. 

He’s fast, clearly well-trained, but Matt can tell he leans on his own style too much to master another in one go. Evidently, even super soldiers aren’t exempt from practice. 

“Was that right?”

“It _sounded_ right.” Matt laughs at the responding groan and holds out a hand for Bucky’s. After a beat of hesitation, he gets it, and carefully readjusts his form. “You need to angle your hand more like this.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Everybody gets it wrong the first time. Took me ages to break the habit.”

He’s still holding Bucky’s hand so he takes the opportunity to guide him, slowly, through the strike. Bucky probably doesn’t need the help but, seeing as he’s allowing it, Matt figures he might as well- once in a lifetime chance, after all. The punch, with Matt’s guidance, is almost perfect, purposefully landing slightly off-center in an attempt to make himself less suspicious. 

It has the opposite effect as Bucky turns over his shoulder to Matt, who’s suddenly aware that he’s standing way too close. “How do you always know where the bag is? You didn’t even touch it, before.”

Matt shrugs and lets him go, backing up and reaching out to find the other bag. If he fumbles for a second longer than he needs to, no one is the wiser. “I know this place like the back of my hand.” He frowns and holds his hand up in front of his face. “Which isn’t a very good comparison, in hindsight.”

Bucky shakes his head and mutters “ _hindsight_ ”- not even the intended pun, but Matt will take it. Humor, he’s learned, is a very effective way to make people stop asking questions. 

They’re left standing relatively close, no longer a room apart as they usually are. Normally, they’d just leave individually but today, they stand in silence, waiting for the other to make a move. Matt, for once, is willing to be the patient one and Bucky moves first, breaking the tension. 

“I’ll see you next week.”

It is, absurdly, the first time they’ve acknowledged that they see each other every week, that they should, by now, be more than strangers. It’s irrational to get worked up over pleasantries, but Matt feels like this one is significant, almost a promise. 

He waves, in mostly the right direction. “See you.”

The joke only registers once Bucky’s walked away and reached the door, leaving him groaning to himself and Matt grinning in the now lightless gym. 

...

“Uh, Matt? Do you know who that is?”

“I’m blind, not an idiot. I figured it out.”

Foggy holds his hands up in surrender. “Just making sure, buddy. Is this a new double D thing?”

Matt shakes his head as he shoves the last of his things into his gym bag. It’s rare that Foggy visits him here, but he’s managed to catch him at the end of a workout with his new... acquaintance. Even after everything they’ve been through, this feels like uncharted territory- he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to introduce Bucky, let alone tell Foggy he’s been making friends with the Winter Solider.

“No, we just work out together.” He intentionally finishes packing up slowly, turned towards his bag as he puts on his glasses. “We both value our privacy.”

Foggy’s expression changes as he pauses, leaving Matt no vocal cues to decipher it. Whatever it is, it’s too subtle to make out. “How does that work with the, uh, hand?”

“He doesn’t ask much about-“ Matt waves to his eyes, “so I didn’t bother asking either. He trains with both, though.”

“Huh. Fair enough, I guess.” Foggy offers his elbow- silently, now that he knows Matt will notice it, regardless- and Matt takes it. “Hey, do you think he could get me Captain America’s autograph?”

At this point, he shouldn’t be surprised by what Foggy chose to concentrate on. Honestly, it’s a relief to have Foggy’s antics to worry about, instead of Bucky. He nudges Foggy to get a move on, lest he force the blind man to lead.

“He’d be too embarrassed to ask _Stevie_ to sign something.”

Foggy’s answering grin is wide enough that Matt can hear it without focusing. “Oh, you are absolutely going to get me gossip about Captain America.”

Trying, and failing, to hide his own smile, Matt interrupts, “Foggy-“

“It’s your responsibility- nay, _duty_ as a friend.”

Foggy starts to lead the way and Matt settles in for an evening of pretending he’s not going to cave. He doesn’t know what stage of friendship makes asking for autographs appropriate, but Matt hopes they’ll get there, eventually. If Bucky sticks around long enough, Foggy will be able to work his way up to a full collection of signed comic books.

Somehow, he doesn’t think Bucky will mind.

...

“James? What're you doing here?”

At first, Matt thinks he must be wrong, but it’s undeniable- the familiar sounds and smells of Bucky, standing in their office. Slightly less sweaty than he usually smells. 

Karen is already at her desk, staring at Bucky, but snaps out of it when Matt and Foggy come in. “Mr. Barnes is-“

“How’d you know it was me?” Bucky interrupts, turning fully towards Matt as he sets his cane against the wall. His eyebrows are raised but his voice only holds a bare minimum amount of curiosity, as if he’s already half-expecting a lie.

Foggy and Karen’s heartrates pick up and Matt answers, before they can say something ridiculous, “Heard your voice from the hall. What can we do for you?”

“Right.” Bucky doesn’t sound assured, but he nods and shifts, calling attention to the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He pulls it down and unzips it, taking out a bundle of fabric and holding it out to Matt. Foggy opens his mouth to tell Matt, but Bucky realizes first, adding, “You left this at the gym.”

He’s able to recognize the hoodie- he must have taken it off at Fogwell’s and forgotten about it- before Bucky puts it in his hands, but he runs his fingers over it anyway, identifying it. “Thank you. You didn’t need to come in, though, you could’ve just waited until you saw me again.”

“I’m not going to be at Fogwell’s for a few days, so I figured,” Bucky clears his throat, tense to keep from fidgeting, “I’d just look up your office and drop it off.”

The nerves are obvious in his voice but Matt tries to ignore them, oblivious in the same way a normal person- blind or otherwise- might be. “Well, thanks for going out of your way. I’ll see you back at Fogwell’s?”

Bucky’s giving everything another once-over, lingering on Foggy and Karen, as he backs up to the door, only pausing long enough to answer, “In a week or so.”

Before he makes it out, Foggy rushes to catch the door, holding it open. “And if you ever need legal counsel, sergeant-“

In spite of the glasses, Foggy can sense Matt’s glare and he cuts himself off, smiling at Bucky as he pushes past them, heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. If he singles out the sound, ignoring Karen and Foggy’s chatter about the possible press, Matt can track Bucky’s progress. He’s nearing the stairs when Matt makes up his mind.

“I’ll be right back.” 

It’s such a split-second decision that he almost doesn’t grab his cane, taking off after Bucky. He goes as fast as he reasonably can, in public, to catch up with him. 

“Hey, James-“

Bucky startles, freezing, and turns, “Jesus, Matt. Didn’t hear you coming.”

“Sorry. I was just wondering, uh,” he stops and tries again, “if you’d like to exchange numbers. In case this happens again.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, for long enough that Matt’s worried he might be missing something- Bucky does a decent job, but he spends a lot of time in the gym with Matt, where it’s easy to forget he can’t actually see. Some of the more subtle expressions are beyond him, especially when there’s little else to go off.

“Just for these occasions?”

Matt grins and remembers, a second too late, to reign it in. _Cool and casual_. “For whatever occasions you want.”

It’s hard not to smile when he hears Bucky nod, take out his phone, remember who he’s talking to, curse under his breath, and say, “Alright. Give me your phone?”

Matt is extraordinarily grateful that he’s the only one here that can hear heartbeats. His own is embarrassingly fast- he shouldn’t be so giddy about getting a phone number. 

Then again- super soldiers are enhanced, aren’t they? What if- No, he’d rather not think about it. He sincerely hopes this isn’t how Foggy feels all the time. 

“I’ll call you sometime.” He takes his phone back, trying to sound as confident as he _should_ be. “Maybe we can get a drink.”

Bucky is so quiet that, if it weren’t for his powers, he would’ve assumed he left already. After a moment, he mutters, “That’d be nice.”

Then, he _does_ leave, waving as he goes. Maybe one day he’ll learn to _say_ goodbye, but Matt is content to hear him groan at the realization, a staircase too late. 

...

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to make a habit of texting him thirty minutes in advance of showing up on his couch, prepared to steal dinner and a movie. It’s easiest that way- not an official date but... something, all the same. 

It’s going well, which is, of course, when it all goes wrong. 

It should have been a routine patrol, but there’s never _really_ a routine when you’re disbanding drug rings. Still, Matt’s stubborn enough that he outright refuses to learn his lesson. Some would say there’s something deeper driving that- and Matt refuses to listen to them, too. 

He _is_ listening to the vital signs in the building he’s perched on the roof of, noting that there are far more than there should be. Not an unbeatable amount, but one that makes his already numerous bruises protest. 

He breaks the breaker box first, then the jaw and ribs of the guys they have out back, guarding the door. They go down relatively quietly, in the commotion of lights going out. He’s in before they’ve figured out how to turn on emergency lights or found any flashlights. 

He knows something is wrong when he hits the first thug and finds more resistance than he expected- body armor, characteristic of a more sophisticated operation than he thought it’d be. It doesn’t help the first three, going down with the sound of bones cracking and yells echoing off the thin metal walls of the warehouse. 

He’s just turned his attention to the next goon, pinpointing the sound of a gun loading, when something explodes. The flash of heat hits him first, what he imagines would be a blinding flare, then the world goes blank, high-pitched ringing taking over his hearing. 

Somebody punches him in the face, breaking through the cloud of confusing sensations, and he takes the opportunity to grab their hand, yanking them into his space where he can land a hit even blind and deaf. He feels them crumble to the ground, groaning at his feet; by then he’s recovered his hearing enough to know another is coming towards him. 

Instinct takes over in a haze of flailing limbs and the smell of blood, so strong he can almost taste it. No- he _does_ taste it, bleeding from his split lip. The person in front of him now is not the average thug, taking more hits than he should and landing more than Matt would like. 

A hit to his jaw nearly makes him lose balance and the world starts to spin again, struggling to maintain equilibrium. In the blur, it’s a miracle he notices the arrival of someone new- the only reason it registers is the familiarity of a slower than average heartbeat, creak of metal, and scent of shampoo.

With a harsh scrape of metal against what’s left of the body armor and the duller thump of flesh and bone hitting concrete, Matt’s opponent drops, clearing the space in front of him. Bucky doesn’t linger on the victory, just turns to drag out one of the figures escaping through the shadows.

Bucky is more powerful here than the gym, with no civilian guise to keep up and no reason to hide what he can do. Once they drift toward each other, they make a decent team- watching each other’s backs, so to speak. 

It’s incredible how dexterous he manages to be with the arm- Matt wonders, briefly, how heavy it is, if he’s had to build a lot of strength to wield it effectively. In a fight, at least, it ends up closer to an advantage than a handicap. 

He’s so focused the fight that he forgets Bucky might be watching him, might notice the same similarities he did. Tonight, like a lot of long nights, he falls back on boxing. It does the trick, dropping the last thug- probably not simple _thugs_ , if whatever group Bucky is running with has been sent to deal with them- but he hears Bucky’s sharp inhale, surprise and realization. 

Not a lot of people move like Matt does, even when he’s holding back in the gym. In retrospect, he had no chance of hiding this- Bucky has been onto him from the start, even if he didn’t quite know the magnitude of Matt’s secrets. 

It’s not strictly the worst way he could’ve found out; he’s pretty sure Foggy holds the title for that terrible milestone and Matt prays he won’t surpass it any time soon. There’s little sense in hiding now, postponing what he’s learned is inevitable, if he’s not planning on forcing himself into isolation. Again.

He intentionally turns towards Bucky, hoping to move his face, what little is visible, out of shadow. 

Bucky reaches out for him but doesn’t touch, leaving his hand hovering in the space between them. His heartbeat, even in the aftermath of battle, is unnervingly steady, though his eyebrows are furrowed- more expressive, Matt’s noticed, when it’s just the two of them. “Are you-“

“Daredevil,” he cuts him off, voice low, and repeats, in his normal voice, “It’s Daredevil.”

A moment’s pause, then Bucky nods, understanding. “I’ll take care of these guys.”

It doesn’t feel right to leave, let someone else clean this up, but he decides Bucky isn’t likely to execute a warehouse full of people- even bad guys. He’s got a com in his ear, a faint buzzing, so there’s Avengers related backup on the way. Matt doesn’t need to be around for that.

Daredevil disappears into the night, and Matt quietly hopes he’ll still see Bucky at the gym tomorrow. 

...

After three days of anticipation- or dread, depending on Matt’s oscillating sense of pessimism- Bucky shows up in Matt’s apartment, the same as any other night.

He’s dressed casually, with his gym bag over his shoulder. Nothing feels outwardly different- Matt is nearly convinced that they can forget anything ever happened, go back to being two strange people with secrets they’ll never acknowledge. The suit is locked in its case, so Matt can almost pretend it doesn’t exist. 

“What’re you making tonight?” Bucky steps over to lean against the counter, carefully out of Matt’s way. He’s gone largely unannounced up until now, lurking quietly behind the couch. “Some more hipster shit?”

Matt snorts and feels around a cabinet, hunting down the next ingredient. “Just normal pasta tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Doesn’t seem like the sort of meal to fuel a superhero.”

Matt stops where he is. He can hear Bucky’s heartrate speed up, hesitant to be the one to bring this up. It’s not hard to imagine that Bucky, like Matt, would have rather not talked about this directly, even if it’s clear they have to. Matt turns around, facing him- albeit unnecessarily.

“I’m not going out tonight.” He rubs his shoulder, rotating it back. “Hurt my shoulder last time, so I’m on mandatory rest. Nurse’s orders.”

Bucky’s looking away- out the window, Matt guesses- and rapping his fingers on his metal arm. It’s a nervous habit Matt recognizes, reminiscent of the built-up energy before it’s Bucky’s turn with the bag. 

“You could’ve just told me.”

_Just_. _What do people insist it’s that easy?_

Matt sighs and moves a pot off the stove, getting the feeling this conversation won’t be improved by smoke alarms being set off. Actually- no, he shouldn’t bail. They’ve come too far for Matt to attempt to vanish in, literally, a cloud of smoke.

“I was going to. I told myself after the third date but,” he pinches the bridge of nose, pushing up his glasses- his own nervous tic, “we didn’t really make things official.”

Bucky’s still turned towards the window, but he looks down now, studying his feet instead of the billboard. “I wasn’t completely transparent either.”

“To be fair, I figured you out right away.” He probably shouldn’t admit that, but he’s been told honesty is the best policy. “Not a lot of people with metal arms and skills like yours in New York. Or the world.”

Bucky’s arm creaks softly as he crosses them. “I thought I’d be safe with a blind man. Should’ve been more suspicious of your damn boxing.”

The tension eases tangibly- but not completely. Bucky’s arms are still crossed, which is fair. More than fair. Matt tries for a smile, anyway, just this side of self-deprecating.

“That’ll teach you to underestimate blind people.”

Bucky laughs- one of Matt’s favorites, the surprised one that comes on too fast to stop. “Guess so. Then you’re-“

“Really blind? Yes.”

“No.” Bucky... makes a face. It’s a little difficult to distinguish- Matt’s more distracted by his thoughts than his ears, for once. “No, I was going to ask if you’re enhanced. You get asked that a lot?”

Matt shrugs- it’s not exactly a one-word answer. There’s no way to explain one part without the others, no way to do this if he’s not going to give context. The museum exhibits on his life are, thankfully, nonexistent- unless Bucky is planning on digging up decades-old news articles, it’s up to Matt. In fact, there are a number of things they should get into, not least of which being the rapidly cooling dinner he stopped in the middle of. 

“Tell you what,” he takes off his glasses- frankly, there’s no need to keep them on now, especially when they’re giving him a headache, “help me finish this, and I’ll give you the cliff notes version. I’ll even let you ask questions at the end of the presentation.”

It’s easy to read the agreement in Bucky’s relaxed stance, heartbeat slowing almost imperceptibly, but he draws it out for another moment of mock hesitation- a performance Matt makes no secret of seeing through. He gives it up quickly, pushing off of the counter and taking his place beside Matt.

“Throw in a movie and you’ve got a deal.”

...

Matt hears Bucky in the gym well before he enters it. 

It’s not just the heartbeat- it’s the sound of fist against punching bag again and again, harsher than he’s come to expect. Bucky being here at all is odd, too early in the afternoon to avoid the risk of running into anyone bleeding over from regular hours.

Matt stands outside for a minute, acutely aware that Bucky hasn’t seen him yet. He could sneak away now, go home. Bucky would never know.

He’s not going to go home.

It occurs to him- suddenly, like most feelings that he ignores until they catch him by surprise- that he wants to keep Bucky close. In the same way he pulls Bucky in by his hoodie when they’re on his couch or scoots his chair to bump against Bucky’s while they’re having coffee, Matt wants to reel him in from wherever his mind has taken him now- close that distance, keep Bucky anchored to the same earth Matt occupies most days. 

The implication is that their _something_ might be far less casual than sharing food and the occasional bed. A bigger _something_ that Matt is pretty sure he’ll find hovering just over his shoulder, waiting to be acknowledged. 

As he tries not to think too hard about it, he pushes open the door, tapping his cane to announce himself. “Bucky? Did something happen?”

Bucky hits the bag again and is out of breath when he answers, “Yes.”

His tone, clipped and holding back a simmering anger that Matt knows too well, holds an unspoken answer to his next question, _Do you want to talk about it?_ Despite being between the lines, it rings out even louder than the _yes_. 

Matt stops again, listening to Bucky’s next blow. The smell of sweat is as strong as it normally is, but it’s broken with the stronger smell of blood on the next impact. Bucky’s hands are unwrapped, and his knuckles have split. He doesn’t stop. 

Matt breathes slowly, uncomfortable being the calmest one in the room. He’s not qualified for this, but for Bucky, he’ll try. 

“I’ve had a lot of friends tell me that you can’t fix everything by hitting it,” Matt starts, cautiously, “and that wounds are not healed with anger.”

Bucky hasn’t looked up and another strike to the bag makes it clear he doesn’t intend to. “Makes it feel better, though.”

“Sure,” Matt agrees, easily, and steps forward. He reaches out, brushing Bucky’s bloody knuckles- he stopped when Matt approached, not willing to risk the bag swinging into him, “but it’ll always create more hurt. You should’ve wrapped these.”

“Yeah? And what’re the bandages, in your analogy?”

Matt doesn’t miss the aggressive tone but lets it go, forcing his own temper to take a backseat to Bucky’s. He’s reaching for a patience that he wasn’t sure he possessed, until now. 

“The aforementioned friends.” Matt listens as Bucky’s heartbeat starts to steady, calming, and realizes he’s still holding his hand, but doesn’t let go. “We should clean this.”

Bucky hums the affirmative and lets Matt lead him to the bathrooms. Matt never comes back here- the smell alone makes him gag- so there’s a brief fumble over figuring out which handle yields warm water. Once he finds it, the rest is easy, just a matter of gently wiping away the blood and wrapping bandages, as he has hundreds of times for himself. Bucky’s hands are as familiar as his own, rendering the super-senses nearly redundant. 

“How do you do it?”

“I can smell the blood-“

“No,” Bucky cuts him off and his fist clenches in Matt’s hands, “I mean... all of this.”

He wants to ask _Which part?_ because it all feels like so much, too much to break into anything small enough to tackle in Fogwell’s bathroom. Anger is one of those too big emotions that come out too flowery, in metaphors that don’t fit and language that no one else understands- a world on fire, overwhelming in its heat and underwhelming in its consistency. Honesty has never come easily, as a consequence of both the life he’s chosen and the impossibility of expression. 

“I don’t know.” He finishes wrapping and sets Bucky’s hand down, looking up to meet his eyes as best he can. No glasses, tonight- free from the barriers he keeps up in his day-to-day. “I thought I did, once. Now, I just... do whatever gets me through the night.”

Bucky snorts at that answer- a non-answer, only a bit better than a lie. “Sounds like that’d piss me off more.”

“It might, but hard and fast rules don’t work very well in practice.”

“You learn that from lawyer-ing or Daredevil-ing?”

Matt’s mouth twists in a smirk he doesn’t stifle in time. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Relative silence falls as Matt’s attention turns to the dripping faucet, sirens across the city, and Bucky’s breathing. For Matt, comfortable quiet is difficult to find- equally due to the rarity of quiet and the futility of comfort. The only times he’s ever gotten close were with Bucky. 

Matt fidgets, wishing he hadn’t finished the bandages so quickly. “Once you cross a line, intentionally or unintentionally, it can be hard to see yourself.”

Bucky’s voice is deliberately dry when he cuts in, “You’re telling me.”

“Sorry,” Matt tacks on, automatically, and pushes forward- stubbornness is sort of his _thing_ , “I just meant, it’s difficult but not impossible. Sometimes you need someone else to show you.”

“Someone like you?”

“Not sure I’m the best choice for _seeing_ ,” Matt winces at his own joke, attempt at levity landing like a twisted ankle, “but it could be anyone. Me, or Steve, or some kid on the street who says you’re their favorite superhero.”

Bucky’s reaction, or lack thereof, is difficult to read, too quiet and still. It’s not the first time Matt has found the lack of clues frustrating and he doubts it’ll be the last, but he forces himself to wait, depending on a threadbare patience he typically reserves for church or stakeouts.

Finally, Bucky shifts in place, head ducked to meet his chest. “People on the street don’t see the ugly parts. Not even Steve does, sometimes.”

“You mean like washing off blood in a gym bathroom?”

“I mean worse.”

Matt nods, without hesitation. “I can do worse. An old friend left a military-grade first aid kit in my apartment.”

It’s more than that, and they both know it- the wounds you can’t see, can’t stitch, are often more ragged than their counterparts- but it’s a promise all the same. 

Bucky straightens and pulls away from the sink, facing Matt for the moment it takes to size him up. “Looks like it’ll have to be you, in that case.”

It doesn’t come out as reluctant as Matt thinks he meant it to- and is severely undermined by their closeness as Bucky follows him home, crawling under the sheets that have started to smell like him. There is a change of clothes for him in the dresser, and his favorite strong coffee waiting for him in the morning. 

The smell of blood never quite dissipates but the smell of _Bucky_ starts to overpower it.

…

They sit on Matt’s roof one night, where it’s secluded, if not quiet. Above the city, legs dangling off the edge, it’s easier to sort everything out. He’s not in the middle of it- all the sound that threatens to creep under his skin, taking up space in his already crowded mind- so he can compartmentalize the noise, ranking the sounds by importance. 

Matt’s bundled in a turtleneck, trying to keep out the cold, but he hasn’t bothered with his glasses or cane. Bucky is-

Matt tilts his head, refocusing. The smell does it- a familiar scent, Bucky’s favorite hoodie. There’s no brush of hair against his shoulders, so Matt figures his hair is tied up, unchanged from the gym. 

Bucky picks up on his movement and tenses. “What is it? You hear something?”

“No,” he’s quick to reassure, shifting closer so their arms are pressed together, “just trying to figure something out.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky elbows him, with the non-metal arm. “And what’d you find, Sherlock?”

“I only wanted to know if you’d worn anything sexy.” He grins and trails his hands over the front of the hoodie, as if looking for text, but lingers far longer than necessary. “I think I’ll need to do some more investigation.”

Bucky snorts, putting an arm around Matt and pulling him in to rest against his side. “Sorry I didn’t dress to the nines for your grimy-ass roof.”

“Looks fine to me.” Matt makes a show of turning his head, looking around, but his aim must be off because Bucky laughs, which marks another victory in Matt’s books.

They fit comfortably together, side by side on the rooftop. There’s no quiet here- neither of them can stand true silence, the feeling of isolation, for their own reasons- but the buzz of the city is almost comforting. Matt finds he enjoys it more with a steady heartbeat and warmth by his side- and he knows Bucky feels the same.

It’s been a while since they started doing this, longer since they stopped avoiding each other at the gym. Matt hasn’t been counting but... months? They’ve never directly talked about it, though Matt’s brought him to Josie’s, which seems as close to official as they’ll get. Bucky keeps promising (or threatening) to bring him to see Steve. 

It’s good. Matt knows Foggy is sick of hearing that, wishes they’d make some announcement or settle on a title, but all he can ever say is it’s _good_. 

He likes Bucky. He’s quiet, funny, doesn’t ask too many questions. With him, he doesn’t have to downplay his abilities or be dependent on them- no need to play sighted or blind, just be himself. Everyone else is too awestruck or too scared or out of the loop altogether. 

Bucky taps Matt’s head, probably not for the first time. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” Matt leans back against him, readjusting. “Just, I’m glad you’re here. _We’re_ here. I, uh-“

“I love you, too, Matt.”

Matt stops. Bucky’s heartbeat stays steady, truthful. 

He supposes that _is_ what he meant to say. 

Matt nods and settles back, letting the night fade into idle conversation. He comments on a radio show a block away and Bucky describes increasingly absurd constellations, none of which are visible in the city’s sky. 

He can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

...

“Am I going to have to give the Winter Solider a shovel talk?”

Foggy shamelessly digs through Matt’s stuff as he gets ready, adjusting his tie. They’ve both met at Matt’s place on the way to work, picking up coffee before they go, and Foggy has found two of Bucky’s hoodies lying around, which he swears is just as damning as a Facebook announcement. They’re _official_ , in Foggy’s eyes. 

“It’s your funeral.”

“Do you think _you’re_ going to get a shovel talk from Captain America?” Foggy must notice his grimace- Foggy always notices- because he punches his arm lightly. “I’m just kidding. He’ll be nice, I’m sure.”

Matt isn’t as confident, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s still a week away, so he can ignore the impending sense of doom for a little longer. “Maybe I’ll bring you along, make it a double date.”

“Dude,” Foggy starts, holding his apartment door open, “I’d _marry_ Captain America if he asked.” 

“You don’t even want dinner first?”

Foggy smiles, so wide Matt can hear it in his voice, like a happy tune playing in the background. “The phrase ‘put a ring on it’ was invented for a reason, buddy.”

Matt takes his elbow, although he doesn’t need to; he could navigate this hallway in earmuffs, if he had to. Foggy is more relaxed these days, with less Fisk and more normal criminals- meaning less broken bones and more full work days. Matt thinks Foggy likes the idea that Bucky is out there, too, providing backup and dragging Matt home at what could be called a reasonable hour.

He’s not the only one- Karen is a fan of Bucky, finding him fascinating in the same way she finds Matt’s abilities spectacular. Bucky has called her _intimidating_ , a comment that Matt was swiftly sworn to secrecy on.

That may be the one upside to all of this- Karen, by far, is more intimidating than Captain America. 

It’ll all work out, he’s sure. 

Pretty sure.

“I’m telling you, Matt.” Foggy guides them around a crowd on the sidewalk, not mentioning Matt’s lost-in-thought expression. “You’ve got me thinking.”

Matt raises an eyebrow, sensing where this is going. “That’s always dangerous. About what?”

“I think I could seduce Captain America.”

“ _Foggy_.”

“No, really!” He tries, without much success, to stifle his laughter and maintain a serious voice. “One round on the dance floor and we’re set. I’ve got the _moves_ , Murdock.”

Matt shakes his head, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. It’s all worth it, for this. 

“Of that, I have no doubts.”

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I will write a sequel in which Foggy seduces Captain America. Today is not that day, but it is inevitable. 
> 
> This is only my second foray into the Daredevil fandom and my first time doing anything Avengers-ish (does Bucky count? Am I outing myself as someone who’s only seen these movies once?) so go easy on me. 
> 
> I once read a stucky fanfic in which everyone thought Matt and Bucky were dating since they work out together- and my multi-shipper brain thought hey, they _should_ be dating! Thus, this was born and it took on a life of its own, as usual. I’m certain this isn’t an original concept (the inherent eroticism of being gym buddies) but it made me happy, so I hope it makes you happy too!


End file.
